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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419989">Weightless</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontrush/pseuds/dontrush'>dontrush</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Hawaii Fridays (Blaseball Team), Mind Control Aftermath &amp; Recovery, Some Light Angst I Suppose, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:00:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontrush/pseuds/dontrush</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>York Silk is a teenager who just shook off a god’s thrall. Now he’s falling, and he has no idea where he will end up.</p><p>York Silk was just a kid who found himself atop the idol board. Then he fell, and he had no idea where he would end up.</p><p>So why, in times like these, is PolkaDot Patterson always there?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>York Silk &amp; PolkaDot Patterson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Weightless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="prose">
  <p>My pod is dropping, crashing towards who knows where and the lurch in my stomach ought to be scaring me senseless. I’ve barely shaken off His thrall, I can’t sense Our Lady’s magic, I’m twice as old as I used to be, and I’m hurtling towards the ground at terminal velocity in a peanut shell made for a small child. I should be paralyzed in fear. Instead, this rush, this weightlessness, is calming. Familiar. </p>
  <p>It reminds me of you. </p>
  <p>—</p>
  <p>Every change to the idol board is a physical event. Most people don’t know this. None of my teammates know this. But you know. I know. And I learned fast. When season 6 started and I rocketed towards the top, it felt like I was being lifted off the islands and into the sky. That sunny Friday morning, my ears popped from the pressure. That night my mom hugged me tight, patted my back, and told me everything would be alright. Promised me. </p>
  <p>On Day 99, we found out we weren’t alright. Auntie Jess wasn’t alright. Nagomi wasn’t alright. I buried my face into my mom’s shoulder again, barely able to hear her words through our sobs. This time, when she told me I’d be safe, that she wouldn’t let that happen to me, it wasn’t a promise. It was a prayer.</p>
  <p>From then on each tick up the board felt like a rickety roller coaster approaching its apex. And we knew exactly what would happen to the players at the top. I was up there for so long, I didn’t think I’d ever learn what it felt like to fall, that lurch, and rush, and weightlessness. Me and Axel had the top 2 spots for almost the whole season. The Ominous Line was so low I could barely make it out. </p>
  <p>It’s a wild visual experience, being on the board. As far up as I was, the Line was a distant, dim light. A second, red horizon deep below the normal one. With just a few days left in the season, that horizon began to approach me, slowly overtaking my vision. But I could still see every person who passed me. Bong, Holloway, Duffy, every single Tacos pitcher, all of their confident, determined faces passed me by as they took their places above me. </p>
  <p>When the last game of the season ended, Mom drove me out to the beach to sit in the shade of my favorite palm tree. After kicking off my crocs, I gripped the Vibe Check tight and took a seat in the sand. I’d larped there so many times before, lost myself in the calm sounds of lapping waves and the warmth of Our Lady’s presence. But I was no fearless warrior that day. I was no hero. I was a kid, with a toy bat in my shaky hands, wondering if all those brave faces I saw before hid the same dread I was feeling. I closed my eyes, and the Line only seemed to get brighter, thrumming harder with every passing second. But you know exactly what that looked like. </p>
  <p>Because I saw you too, Dot. </p>
  <p>—</p>
  <p>It’s surprising given how long we’ve been in the league, but we somehow hadn’t met until the start of that season. I was a bit relieved you didn’t get to pitch that series, but disappointed too. What kid wouldn’t dream of getting a hit off of your legendary arm? There’s always next season, I thought. I was wrong, but that’s Blaseball for you.</p>
  <p>We only played the Moist Talkers for 3 games, so I didn’t see you much. But after I hit a 2 run homer off of Morse in the bottom of the 1st, I caught a glimpse of you in the dugout. I was rounding the bases, jogging from 2nd to 3rd, hoping to grab something sweet off the snack cart soon when we locked eyes. At least, I think we did. You’re, uh, kind of hard to look at. Literally. Faint circular afterimages filled my vision, like I’d just stared down a dozen suns and blinked first. But I could catch little glimpses of you beneath it all. I mostly remember your eyes.</p>
  <p>They’re a hard sight to sort out through all the dots, but once I did, I was sure there was no scarier sight in the league, not even Jaylen. Not even Him. Your eyes are so piercing, so analytical. I don’t ever think when I’m at the plate, I just feel the vibes and swing when it feels right. But with that one look, I could tell your real strength wasn’t your arm, or the way the dots mask the ball’s approach. It’s your mind. You looked at me the same way you look at every batter in the league, the same way Mom looks at the daily Friday crossword. When I finally broke eye contact, turning the corner to head to home plate, I gulped, certain you’d already solved me.</p>
  <p>Imagine my surprise at the end of the season, when I was sitting cross legged in the shade, waiting to be shelled, and the sight of those eyes filled me with relief. The clock was ticking down to the last few minutes, and the Line was closer than a blindfold, but those eyes of yours still pierced through. We were face to face, weightless together, swapping places across the Line, scrambled by its energy every time we passed through. But you never took your eyes off of me, and I could tell you weren’t looking at a puzzle anymore. You were looking at a boy.</p>
  <p>I can’t know what you felt then. Respect? Pity? Pride? But I knew you felt no fear. The earth beneath us, separated by oceans and continents, shook in unison, but you were not afraid. We were so close on the board, that when you placed your steady hand on my shoulder, I could feel it. I could hear you tell me to stay, with my mom, with my team. You said to make the league proud. To make you proud.</p>
  <p>With mere seconds to go, a realization dawned in me, spurred on by your brave words. I felt exactly what you felt in that moment, what Sexton, and Francisca, and everyone else on that board felt. I wanted to save everyone! I wanted to save you. Only then did I know how helpless I was. Because this is Blaseball. No one controls their destiny. Time ran out. With a thunderous boom, the sky turned black, and I—We were just so close that I—</p>
  <p>I saw it happen, Dot. Saw you get shelled. I’m sorry.</p>
  <p>—</p>
  <p>You couldn’t save me twice, I thought. The next season my super idol blessing kept me well above the line. My mom took me to that old palm tree again, and my hands didn’t shake this time. I put on the same face you wore the season before, knowing my shelling would save someone else. And it did. All I could do was wait until the birds decided it was my time. Then season 9 started, and we realized even shelled players weren’t safe.</p>
  <p>From the moment the Monitor began eyeing the top shelled player, my mom almost never left the phone. She called up every single connection she had in the league, desperate to find a way to get me down and keep them from eating me. I wondered if she ever reached out to you. She tried to keep quiet, but I could sometimes hear her through the shell. At the end of her last call, through the tears, she simply whispered, “Thank you, again.”</p>
  <p>The shells can’t block out the sights from the board, so we saw each other one last time as you rose through the ranks. It was bittersweet, figuring it out in that weightless moment. It was you. You volunteered for communion. Nostalgia overtook me as the dots filled my vision. I thanked you, hoping you could hear me through our shells. This time, as you rose, the dots blocked out everything but your smile.</p>
  <p>Then so many great things all happened so quickly. The monitor spit you out, unshelling you! The Fridays made the playoffs, and took a game off the Tigers! Nagomi was finally unshelled! Charleston pulled off a reverse sweep in the Internet Series on a walkoff homer! And then.</p>
  <p>Well. You saw what happened then. You couldn’t save me a third time.</p>
  <p>—</p>
  <p>Maybe with age I can learn to face that part of the story. For now, I try to push the memories of those final, awful battles out of my head, and focus on the much nicer present, where my newly teenage self is plummeting from the sky in a giant peanut. My pod should hit the ground any second now, but thinking about you, about all of this, is keeping me calm. Both time and gravity have caught up with me, but I am weightless again. I put on that face you taught me once more, confident I’m going to land safely at home, but startled to think that home might not mean the islands anymore. </p>
  <p>Suddenly, landfall, and out I go. When I wake up, I look around and see nothing but rock and the scattered, charred remains of my pod. Then I look higher, and see a dozen silhouettes with the sun at their backs, standing on the edge of the crater I’m lying in. The crater is still smoking, and my vision is shaky, but when I spot the shortest figure among them, those old familiar dots block the others from sight.</p>
  <p>Without hesitation, you slide down into the crater, and I get a closer look at you. Something’s off, though I’m too woozy to know what. I blink a few times, struggling to discern just what about you has changed. I realize it too late, when you extend not your arm, but your tentacle to help me to my feet. Huh, that’s funny. Even <span class="peanut">MY DORK</span> the dots <span class="peanut">AWAKEN</span> are suckers <span class="peanut">FIGHT THE SQUIDDISH ONES </span></p>
  <p>He’s gone. He’s gone now and He doesn’t control me and He can’t make me fight anymore and Dot is my friend and I won’t hurt my friends and I can’t hurt my friends again and yet.  And yet. My legs line themselves up. My shoulders pivot themselves back. My hands tighten their grip around the Vibe Check until my knuckles turn white. My entire body moves on its own, puts the last of its energy into one downward swing. I—</p>
  <p>I swing at you, Dot.</p>
  <p>It all happens too fast to track. Maybe I come to my senses and redirect it just in time. Maybe the Vibe Check knows the vibes are wrong and acts on its own. Maybe you’re just that fast. But I miss. Strike, swinging. 0-1. The full brunt of the hit cracks the ground beneath your feet, and the crack climbs all the way up the side of the crater. The bat drops to the ground, and I follow it, cradling myself, forgetting how to breathe. The last thing I see is you, waving off the other Moist Talkers who slid into the crater to defend their captain. I’m weightless one last time as you take my body onto your shoulders and lift me to safety.</p>
  <p>—</p>
  <p>I wake to the smell of salt, and the sound of waves on wood. I hope for a moment it was all a dream, that I woke up on the islands again, that Mom’ll call out any second for me to go get breakfast. But the air tastes wrong. Our Lady’s warmth doesn’t reach this shore. I sit up and find myself in a sleeping bag on an unfamiliar beach. Unzipping myself, I start to crawl out of it, but I freeze when my hand hits the sand. The texture messes with my head, so much grittier than the sand back home. You don’t give me much time to get used to it.</p>
  <p>“Glad you’re awake, Kid.” That voice, the same voice that told me to make you proud all those seasons ago, fills my lungs with lead. I track the sound to the top of the pier beside me, where you and your dots tower over me. You jump down to me, somehow falling slower than you did at the crater. My muscles tense up remembering what I did to you, feeling the aftershocks of that impulse. But you don’t flinch. You smile. “Hard enough adjusting to your first Sunday,” you say. “Least I could do is show the island boy a proper Halifax beach.” </p>
  <p>You approach, kneeling down to my level, offering me a canteen. “Drink up, Kid,” you say. “Can’t imagine the headache you must have.” The canteen is branded, reminding me to Stay Moist Out There. I take a cautious sip and oh—Wow. I forget myself and chug it until the last drop. I’m too nervous to speak, but you seem to understand. Taking back the canteen, you say, “Talkers know our water.”</p>
  <p>A cloud moves in front of the sun. Boats pass by, headed for the harbor. You’re sitting next to me now, and before long, I sit up too. We keep our eyes pointed at the horizon. You don’t speak again until I’m ready. “Called your Mom to let her know the second you landed, but she was already halfway here,” you say. “How that woman knows the things she knows is beyond me.” You chortle, a sound I’ve never heard from you before, and I wonder if it sounded half as bubbly before you became squiddish.</p>
  <p>It’s still hard to look at you, and for once I’m not talking about the dots. After lashing out at you, I could accept it if you looked upset, or scared, or disappointed. But every time I look, I have to turn away, because you’re none of those things. You’re calm. Whether getting shelled by a god, being eaten alive by another, or talking to a kid who just tried to hurt you, you greet every situation, no matter how dire, as just another batter.</p>
  <p>“About an hour till she gets here,” you say, standing to your feet and stretching. “Find me if you need anything, kid. Won’t be far.” You turn your back and start to head to the pier. Maybe you think I need to be alone. And maybe I do. But I can’t let you go. Not yet.</p>
  <p>“Why?” The word echoes fourteen times in my head before I finally shout it, deep and loud, backed by the force of each false start. “Why do you keep saving me time after time after time?” You pause and turn, and I still can’t bear to look at you. But I have to know. “What did I do to deserve that kindness?”</p>
  <p>There’s no pause. “Listen, Kid,” you say. Your voice is fair and steady: a forecast, not a lecture. “If you’re asking me that, then you’ve got a lot to learn about Blaseball.” Crossing your tentacle arms, you face your shoulders square to mine, even as I avert my eyes. “About life,” you continue. “About what we do when people need us.” </p>
  <p>I can’t ask you what I have to ask you. I can’t keep being a burden, can’t keep being a kid. You’ve already given me so much help, it wouldn’t be fair to ask for more. But I do. I look up. I look at those dots and I don’t lash out or look away. I find your eyes. I stand to my feet, weightless no more, but at peace with the weight I bear.</p>
  <p>“Can you teach me, Dot?” I ask.</p>
  <p>As if in answer, the dots seem to fade to the background, suckers alighting around your head, a dozen spectral halos. The sun breaks through from behind the clouds, and I see myself reflected in your eyes—the first time I’ve seen my reflection since I was shelled. I’ve changed so much. Heck, maybe you can save me a third time after all. </p>
  <p>When the moment comes, you simply nod, flashing that slight smile as those steely eyes soften, taking me in as you finally see the puzzle pieces click into place.</p>
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